Lauren found herself staring at the floor.
Look up! If I don’t look interested, why would anyone else care?
She forced her head up and again felt her heart rate increase, her chest tighten. Her eyes bounced around nervously—and again landed on the stare of the man in the back. She felt repulsed by him and suddenly wondered if he was the one who had followed her last night.
Carla went into some additional administrative details—the filing of the report at the sheriff’s department, common statistics on missing persons, and so on—then said, “I’ve got plenty of flyers. Who needs some?”
A number of neighbors raised their hands, and the stack of papers was passed back to them.
Carla leaned over to Lauren’s ear. “Don’t forget to thank them for coming.”
Lauren’s gaze again found the man in the back; she forced herself to turn to Carla, then nodded and addressed the group. “I want to,” she started in a soft voice, “I want to thank all of you for coming out tonight.” She squared her shoulders and tried to make eye contact with some of the women, whose faces seemed less threatening. “I love my husband a great deal, and we’ve been through a lot together. I’m really hoping we’ll be able to find him.”
“As I mentioned, Lauren’s already spoken with Deputy Vork about this, so I’m sure we’ll have law enforcement’s support. If you see someone who looks like Michael Chambers, or if you find out something about him, please don’t try to analyze the information yourself. What could seem unimportant to you could be very significant to a trained eye.”
Carla picked up a flyer and pointed to it. “Our chapter’s phone number on the bottom of the flyer encourages anyone to call with information. I would ask all of you to do the same.” She turned to Lauren to see if she wanted to add anything. Receiving a shrug in response, Carla turned back to the gathered crowd. “Of course, I’ve got some of my brownies here, and Sam brought coffee from his restaurant. But before we start stuffing our faces, if anyone has a question, fire away.”
After a handful of questions were answered, the crowd began to disperse into neighborly groups. As Lauren made her way toward the food, she again caught a glimpse of the man in the back row. He was still seated. And still staring at her. People passed in between their gazes, but he did not move. Lauren felt a chill and turned toward Carla, who was busy motioning to someone.
“Nick, come here for a minute!” Carla said.
“Carla,” Lauren said, grabbing her by the elbow, “there’s a man in the back row. He’s been staring at me since the beginning of the meeting.”
“Probably just interested in what you had to say. Everyone was listening very closely, I assure you.”
“It was more than that. There was something... creepy about him. Cold. The way he looked at me.”
“Well, missy, I know practically everyone here. Point him out.”
Lauren looked at the back row—and the man was gone. Her eyes quickly scanned the room, but people were milling about. Some had their backs turned or their faces were otherwise difficult to see.
“He was just there,” Lauren said. “He must have gotten up.”
“If you see him again, let me know.”
“Howdy, Carla Mae.”
Carla spun and embraced her friend. “Good to see you.” They pushed apart and Carla turned to face Lauren. “I want you to meet Nick Bradley. Just about the nicest person you could hope to know.”
“Now, Carla, don’t go overboard,” Bradley said with a toothy smile that carried a warm charm. He had a medium build and wavy, earth-toned hair, with a poise and ease of movement that made Lauren at once comfortable—and wary.
“Nick was the one who started Neighborhood Watch here, about two years ago. Without his persistence, it never would’ve gotten off the ground.”
“You’re being much too gracious.”
“I saw you,” Lauren said. “At the door earlier, helping that elderly lady.”
“If it involves helping somebody, we’re probably talking about Nick,” Carla said. “Which is why I called him over. I think he’s just the person you should get to know.”
“Why’s that?” Lauren asked.
“Nick’s a private investigator. I’m sure he could do a lot to help you find Michael.”
“At your service,” Bradley said with a slight bow.
Lauren forced a smile but could not get out of her mind the image of the stranger in the back of the gymnasium. Her gaze again began to move around the room.
“Did I say something wrong?” Bradley asked, following her eyes.
“No—no,” Lauren stammered. “I’m just... there was...” She sighed and shook her head. “I’m just tired.”
“After what you’ve been through, I don’t doubt it,” Carla said.
“I’d like to help you find your husband, Dr. Chambers.”
“Call me Lauren, and I’m afraid I’m not in a financial position to pay a private investigator.”
“We’ll take up a collection.” Carla turned toward the crowd and reached for her gavel. “We’ve done that before—”
“We don’t need a collection,” Bradley said, holding up a hand. “It’s on the house.”
Lauren turned to face him. “Why? Why would you do that for me?”
“Because I knew your husband, Lauren. I did some work for his company, and they paid me well.”
“You knew Michael?”
“Like I said, I want to help. When Carla called and told me who was missing—”
“Who do you think put up most of the flyers this afternoon?” Carla asked.
“So what do you say?” Bradley asked. “Am I in?”
“I need some time to think about it, okay? I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“Time is the one thing we don’t have,” Bradley said. “The longer Michael’s missing, the harder he’s going to be to find.”
“Do you have a card?”
Bradley searched his pockets but came up empty. “I’m all out. But I’ll write down my info. Call me anytime. Day or night, okay?”
He grabbed a flyer off the table and penciled in his phone numbers. Lauren took it and thanked him.
“You don’t find many folk like Nick, I’ll say that much,” Carla said as Bradley walked off. “I think you should take him up on his offer.”
“Thanks so much for getting this together tonight. It means a lot to me.”
“Maybe when this all blows over and Michael’s back, you’ll come out to help one of us just like your neighbors did for you.”
Lauren glanced at the mass of people in the gymnasium and shuddered. The truth was, she would like to reach out and be able to help others. “Maybe a lot of things will change in the future.” Lauren turned and walked out the door, fighting off the feeling that the man in the black knit cap was behind her somewhere, following.
FBI director Douglas Knox sank down into his kitchen chair. The five-mile run along the Potomac had done him good. After yesterday’s tense standoff at a militia farmhouse had degenerated into a major confrontation, he had spent a sleepless night tossing in bed and replaying each of the Bureau’s command decisions, as if doing so could change the result. He had spent the better part of today in briefings with the media and meetings with the president and his advisers.
Although it was an important part of the Bureau’s directive, Knox despised hostage rescue and domestic terrorism situations. Anything that left him without total control tore him apart inside. Little wonder his blood pressure was higher than it should be and his list of medications was quickly becoming longer than his seventy-five-year-old mother’s. From the exterior, he looked fit; only prematurely graying hair provided any indication that the job had worn terribly on him.
The burn in his lungs from the twenty-degree Washington air hurt and felt good at the same time. The run had cleared his mind—as it always did—and allowed him to focus.
He kicked off his Nikes and put his feet up on the wood chair opposite him, grabbed the unopened mail from this morning that his wife had left on the table for him, and put the coffee mug to his lips.
He started to tear open the edges of the envelopes: cable and electric bills. A postcard from his sister who had been vacationing in Hawaii—she had called him a couple of days ago, so why she’d even bothered to send the card in the first place didn’t—
The next letter caught him by the throat:
HARPER PAYNE. DEAD OR ALIVE, YOUR CHOICE. FAIL TO DELIVER HIM AND YOU’LL PLACE CERTAIN PEOPLE IN YOUR LIFE AT RISK. WE KNOW WHERE SYLVIA SHOPS. WE KNOW SHE GETS HER HAIR DONE AT MARCEL’S ON THE SECOND THURSDAY OF EVERY MONTH. WE KNOW SHE BOUGHT THE PINK NIGHTGOWN SHE WEARS TO BED AT THE BOUTIQUE ON FIFTH. AND WE KNOW A LOT MORE. LOOK OUTSIDE YOUR BACK DOOR AND YOU’LL FIND AN EXAMPLE OF OUR HANDIWORK. YOU HAVE SEVEN DAYS.
NOTE: THIS WAS PRINTED ON AN H-P LASERJET WITH HAMMERMILL PAPER BOUGHT AT STAPLES OFFICE SUPPLY IN THE EASTERN UNITED STATES. THOUGHT WE’D SAVE YOU THE TIME OF RUNNING IT THROUGH YOUR LAB. BUT DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO, BECAUSE WE DEFINITELY WILL. HARPER PAYNE, SEVEN DAYS.
Knox dropped the letter on the table. He walked toward the back door, not knowing what he was going to find—if anything. Were they watching to see if he went there to look? And if they were, was he inadvertently signaling them he was taking their threat seriously? He stood with his hand on the knob, then decided against opening it. He flipped on the porch light and separated the honey-colored curtain. Lying there on the stoop was Cocoa, the cat’s fur parted along her stomach, her intestines splayed out beside her body.
“Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath.
How the hell did these people find out where I live?
A remnant of his days as a member of the Army Special Forces—then as the chief legal counsel for the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence—paranoia was as much a part of his personality as his compulsion for neatness, with one exception: the former was learned, while the latter was an inborn psychopathology inherited from his father. The result was that he had his security-detail driver take a circuitous route home every evening, all the while carefully surveying the rearview mirror for any suspicious vehicles following them. A sensor disguised as a compass mounted beside the stereo was designed to alert them if an electronic tracking device had been unknowingly installed on his car.
He rummaged through the kitchen drawers to find a Ziploc bag. Using a tissue, he slipped the letter and envelope inside the protective plastic covering, then sealed it. He was suddenly aware of the cold perspiration lining the inside of his sweatshirt.
Just then, his eighteen-year-old daughter, dressed in an oversize FBI Academy T-shirt that extended down below her knees, walked into the kitchen. “Hey, Dad. How was your run?” She opened the refrigerator, withdrew a carton of orange juice, and poured it into a glass. She started to leave the kitchen, but apparently realizing that she had never received an answer, hesitated. “Dad. You okay?”
Knox was staring at the letter and thinking about Cocoa. “Fine, honey. The run was just fine.”
Melissa shrugged. “Whatever,” she said, and walked out.
Knox stood up from the table, ground his molars, and reached for the phone. “Fuck you, whoever you are,” he said under his breath as he punched numbers into the keypad.
This was not a good day for this. Not a good day at all.
Lauren was shivering by the time she arrived back at her car. It was not that far of a walk from the gymnasium, but the temperature had dropped again and the wind had picked up. She sat down and started the engine, cranked the heater to its hottest setting, and disengaged the emergency brake.
Or tried to.
“What the hell?” She pushed in the release button and attempted to pull up on the hand brake. It was ratcheted to the highest setting—which seemed impossible since she would be physically unable to set it that hard. Clumsily maneuvering in her down jacket, Lauren turned her body around and pulled her knees onto the bucket seat, then yanked on the lever with both hands. She grunted and moaned, knowing that all she had to do was move the brake up one notch to release it.
As she held her breath and strained one last time, the handle unlatched and then dropped down into a disengaged position. “Jesus,” she said, leaning against the seat for a second while she caught her breath.
A loud rumble from her stomach reminded her that she had not eaten all day. She repositioned herself, buckled her restraint, and pulled away. As she drove out of the lot, she started replaying the meeting in her head. Although she wished she had appeared more self-confident, the response had been nothing short of spectacular. To have so many people show up at a neighborhood gathering with the sole intent of helping her find Michael truly demonstrated the strength of “community” at work.
As Lauren drove down the dark, winding road toward her house, she felt the need to check her rearview mirror. There were no headlights—which brought a sense of relief, the state of mind she had been missing since Michael’s disappearance.
Lauren pulled into her garage and greeted Tucker as she walked into the house. He jumped up, gently placing his front paws on her chest and licking her on the cheek. “I know, you want to eat.” She filled his dog bowl with food, then headed into the kitchen. She unwrapped a frozen pizza and slipped it into the oven.
A moment later, she caught a glimpse of Tucker’s untouched food bowl. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be starving.”
The dog rubbed against her thigh and she patted him on the head. “Well, I’m going to eat, even if you’re not.” She checked on her pizza, then began setting out a couple of plates, glasses of water, and napkins. Then she stopped herself. The euphoria of the community meeting had vanished in an abrupt realization: she was setting the table for two, but only one would be eating.
After finishing dinner, Lauren pulled Michael’s handheld PC from her purse and powered it on. She touch-screened into Microsoft Outlook and retrieved his messages, then configured the device so it could also receive her e-mail as well.
There were no responses yet from Michael’s skiing buddy, “targard.” Lauren selected Amber’s message that was still in Michael’s inbox, and hit REPLY. She wrote Amber a short note asking if she could find out if Cablecast was satisfied with the work Nick Bradley had done for them. She then touched SEND and powered off the unit.